


On the Bridge

by Anteros



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-01
Updated: 2010-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anteros/pseuds/Anteros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Not sure what to say about this one really, other than its a bit all over the place and spans events from <i>The Even Chance</i>, <i>The Dutchess and the Devil</i> and <i>The Frogs and Lobsters</i>.</p>
    </blockquote>





	On the Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure what to say about this one really, other than its a bit all over the place and spans events from _The Even Chance_ , _The Dutchess and the Devil_ and _The Frogs and Lobsters_.

  
**The Bridge**

The stones of the parapet were still warm but now the sun was going down there was a chill to the wind that had blown incessantly up the river across the marsh all day.

_He's not coming._

The hollow weight that had settled in his gut was growing heavier, contrasting with the fluttering that was rising from his chest to his throat.

_He's not coming._

Digging his fists further into his jacket pockets he hunched his shoulders. The pistol at his belt dug into his hip.

_He's not coming._

He squinted, eyes gritty from the dust that had blown over the bridge all day.

_He's not coming._

It was the dust making his eyes smart.

_He's not coming. It's too late now. What if..._

He blinked, running his tongue nervously over his lower lip.

_What if the republicans had outflanked them? Found another way across the river._

The fluttering turned to a hammering.

_What if they'd reached the village? What if he was already dead?_

He closed his eyes and forced himself to take one breath after another.

When Kennedy opened his eyes nothing had changed. The muddy river flowed sluggishly below the bridge. The wind sighed through the reeds and the poplar branches swayed restlessly. One of the ratings swore sharply from behind the makeshift gun placement, another laughed. The light continued to fade. It would be evening soon.

Hornblower still hadn't come.

* * *

  
**A Matter of Convenience**

Since returning to the _Indefatigable_ Archie once again had the disturbing feeling that Horatio was receding from him. Getting further and further away. He had a nagging fear that all that had passed between them in prison had been the result of little more than boredom and convenience. An unnatural outlet for natural desires. After all, even Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower was just a man underneath that pristine uniform. It wouldn't have been the first time such a thing had happened. Kennedy of all men should have known that. There were still occasional moments when Archie could provoke Horatio to laughter or catch a warm flicker of brown eyes across the deck. But mostly he was Lieutenant Hornblower. Aloof and unassailable.

* * *

  
**Walls**

The time spent together with Horatio following their return to El Ferrol to honour his parole had gone a long way to healing old hurts but had dealt Archie a deeper wound. Hornblower had reused to give up on him, though whether through stubbornness, guilt or love he could not tell. These things had meant nothing to him until their return to that cell, to those four walls. Until Horatio had breached the barricades of his own fear and denial.

Slowly, slowly Archie had begun to hope and to trust. To trust Horatio. They had found a measure of freedom in the other's touch, each drawing the other out from the dark places of fear and guilt and loneliness. One learning to give and the other to accept. And then one dark still night, drifting spent on the edge of sleep he had murmured quietly, so quietly, barely an exhalation of breath, "my love".

And Archie had believed, he had _believed_. Every wall and barricade and defense had crumbled, and he had believed.

But now? Even when Lieutenant Hornblower strode the quarterdeck, hands clasped with determination behind his back, eyes fixed forward on duty and service, Archie still could not stop believing, despite every evidence to the contrary, despite every lesson life had ground into him. But all the time the nagging doubt was growing, bearing down on that small spark of belief, smothering it and taking his breath away.

Archie felt the choking sensation rising in his throat again. He scratched at a spot of lichen on the stone and brushed it over the edge of the parapet. It swirled briefly in the brown eddy and disappeared.

* * *

  
**The Midshipmen's Berth**

Kennedy's return to the service had not been easy and more than once he had wished himself back to the anonymous oblivion of captivity.

On returning from El Ferrol with honourable pardon in recognition of "courage and self-sacrifice in saving life at the peril of one’s own" they had all received a share of Hornblower's glory. Kennedy, expecting to be carried as little more than extra dunnage and deposited at the nearest British port, had been astonished to find his name had never been struck from the _Indefatigable's_ muster book. It was a curious oversight on the part of a captain who did not make casual errors. Hornblower had been right. He _was_ one of the _Indefatigable's_ midshipmen, and indeed had served two years as such in his absence. And so when Lieutenant Hornblower repaired to the wardroom, Kennedy was restored to the midshipmen's berth where he was regarded with awe, and not a little fear, by the frigate's young gentlemen.

Kennedy lay in the restless dark of the berth and listened in bemused silence to the whispers.

"Four times he escaped."  
"No five, I heard."

He waited for the inevitable. "Five _failed_ attempts." But his abject failure was unaccountably overlooked.

"And survived a whole month in an oubliette."  
"They say one week is enough to send a man stark raving mad."  
"I heard he was."  
"What?"  
"Mad. Lost his wits."

Archie pulled the blanked over his head and tried not to listen.

"I wonder how many Frogs he's killed?"  
"Dozens, I'll wager."  
"And at least a couple of Dons. With his bare hands, they say."

A muffled snort in the dark.

"Are you certain? He doesn't look that big."  
"Big enough to take on a little runt like you."

The whispering continued, until Kennedy, gradually reaclimatising to the continual motion of the ship drifted into restless sleep.

* * *

  
**His Men**

The presence of the ratings unsettled him. These were Simpson's division. _His_ men. They had been there. They had seen. They _knew_. And Kennedy had seen the way they looked at him in the fort of El Ferrol. Disgust and pity, barely concealing scorn that their Mr Hornblower should think him one of them. Him, a witless stinking prisoner and Simpson’s leavings to boot. They were Hornblower's men now. Every man jack.

However Kennedy's unhesitating willingness to follow Hornblower into the teeth of the storm and to return to prison to honour his parole had convinced them of his loyalty, if not his sanity. And improbable as it seemed, he _had_ become one of them. On dog watch one evening he had broken up a group of loafing waisters. As he sent them slouching back to work he heard a sneering undertone "...Jack's fucking molly..." He lifted his chin and continued aft. The following day one of the waisters was sporting a conspicuously blackened eye and for sometime after gave Styles a noticeably wide berth.

So Simpson's men were now loyal to him because he was loyal to Hornblower. But Kennedy knew he would never command men's loyalty the way Hornblower did, for all that he felt the burden of command. Blind to his own natural ability to lead, Archie knew that command weighed heavily on Horatio. In Horatio's eyes the slightest failure in despatching his duties not only reflected on his reputation as a lieutenant but negated his very worth as a man.

The contrast with Lord Edrington could not have been greater. The major carried command like a birthright, leading his regiment with a steely nonchalance. While Kennedy trusted Hornblower with his life, truth be told he had considerably greater faith in Edrington's ability to command under these charged circumstance. He bitterly regretted his childish dockside sneers at the regiment's expense and had long since pinned his hopes on the major to extract them, or rather to extract Horatio, from this sorry mess. But Horatio wasn't with Edrington. Edrington was at the ford with the 95th Foot. And Horatio was, well, Archie didn't know where Horatio was.

_Where are you? Why aren't you here? You should be here with your men._

Archie sighed and scuffed the toe of his boot against the foot of the parapet.

_You should be here. With me._

* * *

  
**The 12th Article**

Two weeks after their return to the _Indefatigable_ Kennedy received the inevitable summons to report to the captain. He had expected to be discharged, the circumstances of his capture having been reported by Hornblower. He had endangered both men and mission that night two years before when they had been despatched to cut out the _Papillion_. That was that. If he was lucky he would be quietly pensioned off. More likely he would be tried for contravening the 12th Article of War.

_Every person in the fleet, who through cowardice, negligence, or disaffection, shall in time of action withdraw or keep back, or not come into the fight or engagement, or shall not do his utmost to take or destroy every ship which it shall be his duty to engage...and being convicted thereof by the sentence of a court martial, shall suffer death._

Then luck would see him cashiered in disgrace. Otherwise it would be the end of a rope. He had wondered with resigned detachment whether a fit would be considered cowardice, negligence or disaffection.

The last thing he had expected was to be promoted to acting lieutenant. For his "unhesitating willingness to honour Hornblower's parole" and for "showing loyalty to a fellow officer above and beyond the call of duty". Kennedy's response had been to stare dumbly at the captain. He may as well have been promoted for breathing. Honour hadn’t come into it. It hadn't even been a conscious decision. Where Horatio went he would follow. Simple as that. Even if it meant following him back to prison or over the edge of a cliff.

Much good the promotion had done him. Here he was, back again on the wrong side of the Channel, and no more a free man than when he wore French chains. Archie gazed blankly across the mashes to the fields beyond, where a thin charcoal smudge marked the remains of a smoldering farm house. He rubbed his wrists absently where they still bore traces of the scars and calluses left by French and Spanish irons. The sluggish brown river was starting to take on a golden glow as the sun sank further over the marshes. Archie dug his fists deeper into his pockets to keep his hands from those scars.

* * *

  
**Vive le Roi**

The absurdity of their mission had not been lost on Kennedy. He had seen it from the first and had rashly asked the question the senior officers were dutifully avoiding. "An invasion, Sir?" The Captain's response had been curt. But Pellew was not a man to shirk the truth or to shield his men from it. "I realise this plan may seem... _cavalier_...." Archie was left in no doubt as to the futility of questioning their orders further, and in no doubt as to the futility of General Charette's crusade.

Even as he stood against the parapet of the bridge, struggling with his fear he could not help but appreciate the spiteful irony that had returned him to French soil to fight for the restoration of a monarch of whom he knew little and cared less. Someone else’s war. Plus sa change plus c'est la meme chose.

Archie had had enough family history drummed into him to appreciate the irony. The Kennedys had a long allegiance with the French crown both glorious and ignominious. Sir Hugh Kennedy, the renowned Canedé, companion in arms to Joan of Arc had fought with recognised bravery against the English at Orlean, Baugé and Verneuil. A less fortunate namesake, one Archibald Kennedy of Edinburgh, had been executed for his part in the ’45. One of countless sacrificed in the butchery that followed the futile uprising.

And now it was Archie's turn to play his part in restoring a despised and deluded monarch to the throne. He sorted with contempt, the sound lost among the soughing of the trees. It had all happened before.

* * *

  
**Unconcealed**

As was befitting his improbably exalted status as acting lieutenant, Kennedy was determined not to reveal either his disdain for the mission or trepidation at returning to France. He had made a show of shrugging off Horblower's brusque enquiry as to his feelings about being back on French soil. He might have been angered by Hornblower's bluntness had he not known him well enough to recognise the bravado that concealed crippling doubt and barely suppressed fear.

Setting up the gun and laying the charges on the bridge had preoccupied Kennedy since Hornblower had departed. Now all that remained was for Styles and Matthews to lash the final barrels of gunpowder in place and he was starting to became aware of that nagging doubt again.

Hornblower had appeared from the village as the last kegs were being slung in place. Their circumstances were lost on neither Kennedy nor the ratings. He waited for his officer's command, the conventional response ready on the tip of this tongue. But it wasn't Lieutenant Hornblower, it was Horatio; and it wasn't a command, it was a request; and it wasn't Mr Kennedy, it was Archie, and that damn near unmanned him.

"Archie, will you take charge?"

The crisp "Aye aye sir" died on his lips, replaced by a hesitant "Yes, yes of course." But the quiet request had loosed his tongue and loosed his fear.

"Matthews is right though, Horatio. If we have to blow up the bridge we will be cut off."

He could hear the break in his voice and, despising himself, bit against his lip.

"Fine thing to die in someone else's war."

There had been no response. Not from commander or friend. Hornblower left him with a look of barely concealed contempt, mingled with embarrassment and scorn.

The memory of that look made the cold weight in his stomach slide and roil and brought the lump back to his throat. He swallowed, his eyes prickling and smarting.

* * *

  
**Fear**

He was afraid. He couldn't deny it. Worse, he was a coward. Hornblower knew it and, judging by his parting glance, despised him for it. It took every ounce of will to force down the terror and smother the fear that was rising in his chest, continually threatening to unman him. As he gazed down the marshy river from the bridge the periphery of his vision began to swim and shimmer. Please god no, not a fit. He held his breath and blinked hard, the shimmering continued, green and gold. Just the last long low rays of the sun falling through the swaying branches, flickering on the edge of sight. Archie breathed out a long sigh that did nothing to diminish the mounting panic. For one so long imprisoned, he had never felt more trapped. Bound by duty, by his word to Horatio, to this spot, to this bridge. He could do nothing but wait as his fear prowled around him, circling closer.

Kennedy knew fear well enough, it had harried him for years, waiting in the dark recesses of nightmare and the darker corners of the hold. He could still feel its breath on his neck as it clawed and breached him. But he had never been afraid to die. Indeed he had sought death, entreated it endlessly, uselessly, for years. But now he was afraid to die. And yet more afraid that Horatio would die. And he would never know. He would never know if that had been it.

Archie watched as the long shadows of the trees crept away from him across the bridge to merge with the gathering dusk.

Matthews had left the gun placement and was hovering at the end of the bridge, watching him intently.

* * *

  
**Joy**

By the time Archie left the bridge it was dark. Horatio hadn't come. And he still didn't know, might never know, if that had been it. If that had been his full allotment of joy.


End file.
